


hold me (like i'm more than just a friend)

by checkmate



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcoholic Tony Stark, Angst, I'm so sorry, M/M, contains references to sex/sexual acts but no actual depictions or descriptions, hence the M rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 14:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5337254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkmate/pseuds/checkmate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Star-crossed lovers doesn’t even begin to cover it. Romeo and Juliet don’t understand just how lucky they are. </p>
<p>Or, the one where Tony tries to overcome his alcoholism and in the process just has to fall for the most inconvenient person <em>ever</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold me (like i'm more than just a friend)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "All I Ask", one of the songs on Adele's new album _25_. It's not based on the song or even inspired by the song (I started this before the album came out) but if you read this and then listen to it, it's really damn angsty. So yeah. Try that if you want to make yourself even sadder.

It’s been a while since Tony has found himself lying in the gutter. Normally, when he gets too fucked up to stay in the bar, the manager calls him an Uber and sends him home, but he’s in the middle of God knows where and Rhodey, who is usually responsible for keeping him out of trouble, met a  _girl_ and now he’s by himself. In a gutter. No-one knows who he is and his phone is dead. And he’s pretty sure he’s lost his wallet.

Oh, and he’s drunk. Very, very drunk.

He still has something clutched in his hand and he looks down to see a three-quarters full bottle of vodka that he doesn’t remember picking up. Whatever. It’s cold and he can’t remember where his hotel is or the name of the hotel or Rhodey’s phone number, so he might as well drink. He’s going to be here all night anyway.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A voice makes him jump as he raises the bottle to his lips, and vodka sloshes down the front of his shirt. He pauses for a second, looks from his hand to his chest to the guy who has just appeared out of nowhere in front of him, and starts laughing hysterically. The guy smiles tightly and takes the bottle from him, setting it down out of his reach. “You doing okay there, man?”

Tony manages to control his laughter—what is he laughing at? He can’t remember—and nods at the stranger. He’s cute, he thinks, really cute. In fact, he’s beautiful. In fact, Tony really wants to take him home and fuck his brains out. He, obviously, doesn’t mention this.

“Well, thanks, but maybe we’ll leave that for the second date, huh?”

Okay so maybe he did mention it. He’s way too drunk for this shit.

“I’m Bruce, by the way.” The man, Bruce, looks at his expectantly, and he realises he’s waiting for him to give his name. Shit, what _is_ his name? It takes him a second, and then he grins.

“Tony! I’m Tony.” He’s proud of himself for remembering, but Bruce doesn’t look too impressed.

“Okay, Tony. Do you have anyone you can call? I think you need to get home, buddy.”

Tony reaches for his phone, and throws it towards Bruce. It lands on the pavement and Bruce looks horrified at how casually Tony treats his $1200 brand new StarkPhone Mk IV. “It’s dead.” He announces unnecessarily as Bruce picks it up and turns it over to reveal the remarkably unscratched, undamaged phone. “You have any juice?”

Bruce looks at him warily. “I’m not sure if you’re talking about a phone charger or drugs.”

“Charger.” Tony says. “Though drugs too, if you got that.”

“No drugs—”

“Shame.” Tony yawns.

“But if you have someone you can call, you can use my phone.” He says, and hands over an old StarkPhone Mk II. Tony looks at it and giggles uncontrollably.

“You need a new phone, Brucey. The Mk IV’s processor runs fucking rings around the Mk II, and the touchscreen capabilities will blow your mind. I’ll get someone to—to send you one. Yay! Free phones for everyone.” He laughs to himself again, and stares at the outdated user interface for a few seconds because he has no idea what Rhodey’s phone number is and if he’s doing what Tony thinks he’s doing, he won’t answer anyway.

“I don’t think you’re in the position to get me a free StarkPhone.” Bruce says with a roll of his eyes. “Now dial.”

“Course I am.” Tony responds, ignoring the instruction to make a call. “I can do whatever the fuck I want. I’m Tony St—” And then he vomits all over the pavement. “Fuck.” He says pathetically once he’s spat the last of the bile from his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he threw up after drinking. He must be _fucked._

“You’re Tony Stark.” Bruce says , sounding slightly disbelieving , then hands him a tissue.

He nods, wiping his mouth and handing back the (fortunately free from puke) phone. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out.” He sounds more confident than he feels but he’s pretty sure this is as bad as his night can get, so… He’ll take his chances.

Bruce laughs and shakes his head. “I’m not leaving you here. Come on, we’re moving away from your sick until I can get you home, okay?” He does a quick Google search and then makes a call. “Hi there, yes, um… Do you have a Tony Stark staying with you at the moment? You do? That’s great, thank you. … No, I just found him in the street and guessed he might be staying with you. … Yes. Yes, thank you.” He hangs up and immediately makes another call, and there’s a cab in front of him three minutes later. “Okay, Tony. This is going to take you back to your hotel, okay? Please try not to throw up in the car and drink some water before you go to bed.”

Tony nods, struggling to keep his eyes awake. As the cab pulls away, he looks through the window to wave goodbye, but all he sees is a vodka bottle and a puddle of sick. Bruce has disappeared.

*

“Hey, hot stuff.”

“Um… Who is this?”

Tony tuts, spins around on the spinny chair in his hotel room aimlessly. He’s got through half the mini-bar, but Bruce didn’t need to know that. “It’s Tony Stark, obviously.”

Bruce pauses, as if assessing the situation. “Right. How exactly did you get this number?”

“Reception desk. I said I really wanted to thank whoever saved my life last night and they have caller ID so they gave the number to me. You busy?”

“Kind of.” Bruce says, but it’s unconvincing. “Tony, you… you really can’t be calling me.” He sounds reluctant, or annoyed, or something else that Tony can’t quite place.

“Why the fuck not? And I was serious about that StarkPhone, you know. You saved me from the cold and dangerous streets of whatever the fuck city this is.”

“Portland.”

“Right, yeah. Portland.”

“Seriously, Tony, it’s fine. I don’t need a StarkPhone and I don’t need your thanks. And I really didn’t save your life; I called you a cab. There’s a distinct difference there.”

“Come on, Bruce. You know where I’m staying. Why don’t you come and have dinner with me? No pressure, just a thank you. And remember, I’m only hitting on you if you want me to be.” He grabs himself another bottle and unscrews it, before gulping half of it down in one go. “Don’t make me beg, Brucey.”

Bruce laughs, and Tony thinks he’s done it. “You’re crazy, Stark.”

“So that’s a yes?” He confirms, grinning to himself. He’s 98% sure Bruce wants him to be hitting on him. People don’t _really_ help drunk strangers for purely altruistic reasons. And he knows that even in a crumpled suit on the sidewalk with puke dripping down his chin, he looks _hot_.

“No! It’s… Tony, I can’t, okay? It’s not… I’m… I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

Tony knows he seems arrogant, but he’s not fazed. He’s been in a position like this before. Bruce will come. “So… 8pm tonight then? I’ll have your new phone and everything.”

“Good bye, Tony. Don’t call me again.” He hangs up without another word and Tony is left with the empty line buzzing in his ear. He’s still pretty certain Bruce will show.

*

Bruce doesn’t show.

Well, fuck.

It’s gone ten and Tony is sat in the bar alone. He can’t remember the last time he got stood up like this. Fortunately, where people disappoint him, fine whiskey never does, so he’s still in good company and well on the way to fucking drunk. “Can I get another?” He gestures at his empty glass and the bartender hands him another, a double, with a smile. They’re probably under instructions to get him as drunk as possible and run up a huge tab, but even that knowledge doesn’t bother him much. He wants to get drunk. He enjoys being drunk way more than he enjoys being sober, honestly.

Half an hour later, some guy sits in the chair next to him but Tony doesn’t look up. He takes another glass from across the bar, and drinks half of it in one gulp. The man tuts disapprovingly, and Tony isn’t going to take that shit. “H-Hey—” He slurs, trying to give him a piece of his mind, but it’s _Bruce._ “Oh! Hey! Hey! Can I get you a drink? I’ll have another one of these for my friend. Snap to it!” He clicks his fingers repeatedly and laughs at his own joke.

Bruce shakes his head at the bartender, who shrugs and goes back to polishing glasses. “Tony, what are you doing?” He says, and takes the rest of his drink. Tony thinks it’s pretty ironic that he’s into a guy who keeps confiscating his alcohol.

“You bailed on me.” Tony accuses, then hiccups loudly. “But you’re here now, huh? I guess you just couldn’t resist me.”

Bruce rolls his eyes and pours two glasses of water from the jug on the counter. Pressing one into Tony’s hand, he instructs him to drink it and doesn’t respond to Tony’s smirk.

“I got your phone.” Tony tries, sliding the box over to him. “It’s the latest model.”

“Tony, I’m not taking it.” He says flatly. “I don’t need payment for helping you out once, okay?”

Tony mumbles under his breath, and Bruce looks at him questioningly. “I don’t like being in debt.” He admits, desperately wanting the rest of his drink and another drink and then a burger and possibly another drink. “I’m hungry. You want a burger? I never ate.”

Bruce shook his head. “Get one if you want. I’m fine.”

“Why did you even come tonight?” Tony says finally, because it makes no sense. He’s not hungry. He doesn’t want to drink. He barely talks and he’s not looking at Tony if he can help it. “You said you weren’t going to. You didn’t, and now you’re here. Nearly three hours late. What’s up with that?”

Bruce shrugged, turning to look at him properly for the first time that night. “I guess I had nothing better to do.” Tony mulls the answer over; it’s not perfect, but it’ll do for now.

“You know you’re super hot?” Tony asks bluntly, because if it’s not food or company, he can only imagine Bruce came for sex. He reaches out to Bruce’s shirt, buttoned almost all the way to the top, and undoes the topmost one. A little chest hair is revealed and Tony grins. “Like, seriously. You’ve got this whole sexy librarian thing going on. I love it.”

Bruce doesn’t even blush, which Tony was expecting as a minimum. “Thanks?”

“You want to fuck?” Because sometimes cutting to the chase is the best way to go. Bruce doesn’t shoot him down, which is a good starting point, until he shrugs again. “What does that even mean? I ask if you want to have sex, and you shrug? You either do or you don’t, Bruce. Whichever one is fine, but like… it’s one or the other. And I’d like to know which, because I want to see what those lips look like on my cock.”

“I don’t _not_ want to have sex with you.” Bruce admits, and in his drunken state that sounds like a yes to Tony. He has struggled half way out of his seat when Bruce pushes him back down. “But I’m not going to suck your cock while you’re practically comatose and you reek of booze, okay?”

“So what now?” Tony asks petulantly, because there is something desperately compelling about the image of Bruce, this oddly considerate man who he barely knows at all, stretching his lips around Tony’s dick. “How about you come back tomorrow? I promise to stay more sober.”

Bruce snorts out a laugh and shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that, Tony. Now go on. Get to bed.” Bruce takes him by the hand and pretty much drags him to the elevator, which is fortunate because Tony is too drunk to walk in a straight line, let alone manage the precise task of swiping his room key card to get access to the exclusive top floors of the hotel.

Bruce carries him bridal style when his legs decide to stop working and lays him gently on top of the bed. “You have to stop, Tony.” He says quietly, and Tony isn’t sure if he realises he’s still awake, that he’s conscious enough to understand him. “You can’t go on hurting yourself like this.”

Toy pretends to be asleep because he’s not sure what he is supposed to say in response, but he finds it doesn’t take long for him to actually drift off into an alcohol induced nap. When he wakes up, still fully clothed, he can’t remember much of the night before, but he remembers Bruce pulling the sheets up under his chin, and he remembers the words that Bruce murmured before he slipped away one more time.

*

Tony returns to New York and Bruce stays in Portland, but he can’t stop thinking about him. It’s odd; they didn’t have sex, they didn’t even _kiss_ and Tony can’t get him off his god damn mind. It’s an obsession, almost—he finds himself with his finger over the dial key but he can’t bring himself to do it. What would he say? “Hey, it’s Tony. I’m on the literal other side of the country but do you want to grab a drink some time?” It’s a ridiculous concept. No, this is going to be one of those regrets, he thinks, but he’ll get over it.

Hopefully.

He goes to a bar, any bar, the first bar he finds when he leaves the tower, and gets a whiskey and the seat with the best view of the place. There’s plenty of people around who catch his eye and smile over at him. He’s known in these parts. People know that if you’re pretty enough, smart enough, interesting enough, Tony Stark will take you home. He gets a few offers, and he’s even tempted by some—a blonde haired, blue eyed law student who doesn’t bother concealing his desire. A petite brunette journalist who makes up for small breasts with a cute smile and thoughtful opinions on what should be done to reduce socio-economic inequalities in the Western world.

But they aren’t right. None of them are what he’s looking for. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, not really, but he knows that it’s not in this dingy little place. He downs his drink and thinks about leaving, but Blond Law Student immediately buys him another. He leaves it on the bar for a moment too long and says “Sorry kid, but I’m not interested tonight.”, signalling the bartender to put the drink on his tab instead. The guy looks put out, but thankfully doesn’t push his luck and walks away in silence.

Now Tony feels obliged to drink the stuff. He’s paid for it, after all, and it’s good. It’s really good. He enjoys the slight burn as it glides down his throat, takes pleasure in the heady sensation of going just slightly too far, of the tipsiness setting in. This is the point of no return, he thinks, and there’s no Bruce in New York to pick up the pieces.

He finishes the drink and gets another.

As it gets later, he wonders whether he made the wrong call about Blond Law Student. He’s still there, still looking over at him with a cocky grin every so often. Maybe he should just take him up on his offer. He knows the kid is interested. Next time he catches Tony’s eye, they’re leaving together.

Someone sits down next to him, and it’s annoying because the place isn’t exactly full. He shoots the newcomer a glare that says all he needs to say, but only gets a laugh in return. He knows that laugh.

“I… Bruce? What—?” He’s struggling for words; he’s not even sure if this is real any more. It feels real, but the overwhelming evidence suggests otherwise. Bruce belongs in Portland. This is… This is New York. There’s no reason for him to be this side of the country, let alone in the same bar on the same night. “Are you following me?” He says suspiciously.

“No.” Bruce says simply, not bothering to explain any further. Tony purses his lips, searching for any give-away in Bruce’s face. Blond Law Student lies forgotten.

“But you were in Portland.”

“So were you. And now we’re both here.” Tony shakes his head slightly, and tries to get another drink, but Bruce grabs his arm. “Nope. He’ll have a large glass of water, please.”

“Who _are_ you?” Tony says stupidly, because he’s not sure he knows any more. He’s not sure he ever knew. “All you do is show up and s-stop me drinking.”

Bruce laughs again, and pushes the glass of water into Tony’s hand. “Drink that. All of it.”

Tony does, because he’s too busy trying to work this out to argue back. With Bruce’s eye on him, frowning every time he stops, it’s not long before he sets the empty glass down on the bar. “What are you—”

Bruce stands up and pulls Tony along with him. “You’re going home, Tony.”

“Come with me.”

Bruce shakes his head slowly, a small sad smile on his face. “I’m taking you home and that’s it, Tony. I’m not… I can’t… Nothing more.”

“But—”

“No.” He says firmly, and that’s that. Even this drunk, Tony knows there is no point trying to argue it. He calls a cab and helps Tony in, even hands him a bag in case he needs to throw up. He doesn’t need it this time, thank God. It doesn’t take them long to get to the tower, which is fortunate enough because Bruce doesn’t say anything and the ride is exceedingly awkward.

He doesn’t let Bruce pay for the cab; it’s not his job to stop him fucking up, after all. Once they’ve both stepped out of the car, Tony stops Bruce before going inside. “You know, it’s weird. I don’t… I don’t even know you but I like you.”

Bruce laughs outright at that, but says nothing else.

“Maybe if we run into each other again while you’re in town…” He tries, managing to not trip over his words too badly. “Maybe we could… hang out. You know, when I’m sober.”

Bruce mulls it over for a while, then shrugs. “Sure, Tony. If we ever bump into each other and you’re sober, we’ll hang out. Deal.”

Tony fucking _beams._ “And by hang out, you mean sex, right?”

“Go to bed, Tony.”

*

He waits, and waits, and waits, and Bruce never calls him. He has his phone number, his address, and let’s be real; he’s Tony fucking Stark. He’s not hard to find. But nothing. Radio silence since their last interaction. He’s been keeping sober too, because it would be just his luck to be completely hammered when he eventually shows up. His stretch of sobriety lasts eight days, which is pretty much a record for him, and then he can’t handle it any more. He downs four whiskeys and a few vodka shots—he’s really getting too old for vodka shots—and naturally, Bruce is there.

He’s not angry; he’s not even disappointed. He acts like it’s a fucking inevitability and Tony feels like screaming, feels like yelling from the rooftops that Bruce only ever sees him at his worst. It makes no difference, though. Bruce helps him upstairs, puts him to bed like usual, and disappears.

*

The next time Tony sees Bruce, he’s actually not drunk. It’s been almost two weeks since the last incident, two weeks since Bruce last happened upon him drunk out of his god damn mind, but this time, not a drop of alcohol has passed his lips.

Unfortunately, someone had already cut him a line by the time he arrived at Justin Hammer’s party, and once he has the small metal straw in his hand he’s gone too far to back away. He gasps as he straightens up and his nose tingles dully, and there’s Bruce, of course, watching.

Normally, he looks on disapprovingly, but this time, he is furious. He walks out on to the street fists clenched and Tony follows him, worried. “Bruce?” He asks nervously.

He watches almost from the side-lines as Bruce explodes, muscles expanding and skin darkening, turning a vivid green. The monster looks at Tony and lets out a deep loud roar before running out into the night. He passes out shortly afterwards, wakes up the next morning lying on Hammer’s bathroom floor. He gets the message.

No more drugs.

*

Tony has a theory. He’s been sober for a straight month and he hasn’t seen Bruce (other than in his drug fuelled hallucination) for nearly two.

He finds a bottle of something half decent in the back of his drinks cupboard and lifts it to his lips. Doesn’t even bother pouring it out—if he’s right, there’s no point. If he’s wrong, he’ll probably drink the whole thing anyway, just to make sure the evidence is suitably conclusive.

One moment Bruce is nowhere, and the next, three quarters of the way down the bottle, he’s sat next to Tony on the couch, looking tired and thoroughly unsurprised.

“You’re not real, are you?” Tony asks simply, not bothering with any preamble. Bruce doesn’t respond. “You only ever show up when I’m too drunk to make sense of anything. Tomorrow morning, I won’t remember anything about where I was or who I was with but I’ll remember this, remember you, clear as day. You found me in Portland and then you appear again in New York. Admit it. You’re not real.” His heart is pounding in his chest because he wants to be wrong so badly. He needs to be wrong, but he doesn’t think he is.

Bruce gives him a half smile, just one corner of his mouth turning up. “Of course I’m real, Tony. I called you a cab, remember? I put you into bed and made sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit. You phoned me back, didn’t you? How could I not be real?”

Tony shakes his head. Memories are coming back to him, fragments of events hidden behind Bruce in his mind. Standing at reception as the phone number rang and rang until it went through to a stranger’s voicemail. The bartender eventually cutting off his tab, refusing to serve him. “How did you get in here?”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “You let me in, Tony. You buzzed me into the lobby and let me up the elevator.”

“No!” He says, louder than necessary, perhaps, but he’s trying to figure this out. “No, I didn’t. You just appeared. You always just appear, and then you’re gone instantly. You’re not real.”

“Tony, you’re not making sense.”

He laughs uncontrollably, long and loud enough for even Bruce to look worried. “Of course I’m not making sense. I’m talking to myself, aren’t I?” He laughs again, no humour in it, and reaches for another swig of the bottle. Bruce catches his arm before it reaches his mouth and takes it from him. “See? I have an imaginary friend who just exists to stop me drinking myself to death.”

“Tony, I’m not imaginary. See? You can touch me. I’m here, I’m next to you.” He tries, but Tony’s not buying it.

“I’m not _stupid,_ Bruce.” Tony emphasises, but lets him take the whiskey and put it out of Tony’s reach. “I know you’re not real.” His voice wavers, and Bruce looks surprised. “I wish you were real.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything in response, and Tony takes that as confirmation. He knows he’s right; he supposes Bruce gets his argumentativeness from his own damn subconscious, like he’s the fucked up drunk irresistible force, and Bruce is the stubborn imaginary immoveable object. They exist only in a contradiction.

“Tony, you have to stop this.” Bruce says eventually, indicating the near empty bottle.

“You think I haven’t tried?”

“Actually, yeah, that’s exactly what I think.” Bruce snaps harshly. Tony tries to respond, but he can’t think of a defence, so he shuts his mouth and stares angrily at his hands instead. Bruce lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly. “I’m sorry, Tony. That was uncalled for.”

“I was sober for a month, before this.” He protests. “I’m trying.”

“You’re not sober now, though.” Bruce points out. “You have to commit to it, Tony. As soon as you drink, you undo all the good work you’ve done.”

Tony frowns, bites his lip and thinks about what Bruce is saying.  He’s not _wrong_ exactly, but he thinks it’s a little unfair. “The only reason I got drunk tonight was because I wanted to see you.” It’s fucking embarrassing, but there it is. Some messed up Bella Swan bullshit that he’s got himself involved in, where he’s happy to fuck himself up just to see Bruce for a few minutes before he passes out. It’s pathetic.

Bruce looks uncomfortable. “Tony…” He starts, but he doesn’t expand. Clearly, he’s as lost in this situation as Tony is. “This can’t ever work out.” He says carefully, and Tony snorts.

“Right. Because you’re not real.”

Bruce still wants to argue back. Tony can see the distress it’s causing him. “Because we’re not right for each other.” He tries, but Tony isn’t buying it.

“That’s crap though, isn’t it? Why would I invent someone who was anything but perfect for me?” He asks. There’s a simple answer though, and Bruce, being Bruce _and_ being Tony, knows it well.

“Self-destructive tendencies?” He jokes, and Tony flips him off. “In all seriousness Tony, we can’t do this.”

“Why not?” Bruce digests the challenge, closing his eyes in frustration. “Go on, Bruce. If you’re real, why not? Give me one good reason, and I’ll drop this.”

“Because I’m supposed to stop you from drinking!” Bruce explodes, and Tony jumps, startled. “You’ve already said it, Tony. You downed three quarters of a bottle of whiskey just so that you could see me tonight. You’re an alcoholic. You need to stop or you’re going to kill yourself, and you’re never going to stop if we’re… If we’re _anything._ ”

Tony should be gleeful that he got Bruce to admit he wasn’t real, but he realises all too well how twisted that logic really is. It’s the last piece of evidence that he needs, the last proof that he’s monumentally fucked up, that he’s not only seeing people in his head but that he’s developing _feelings_ for them.

Well, people have been telling him for years that the only person that he could ever love is himself.

“But you’re already here.” He says, trying not to give away how shaken up he is. Bruce looks at him in disbelief. “Just snuggles, okay? No funny business.”

“You know we just established I’m a figment of your imagination?”

Tony shrugs. “I can see you. I can feel you. You’re cuddly and exceptionally attractive. Clearly I have an exemplary imagination and I would quite like to reap the rewards of that.”

Bruce looks at him, unable to believe what he’s hearing. “Fine. Snuggles only.” He bargains, and Tony nods. He tucks himself under Bruce’s arm, making himself comfortable against his warm body. It doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep.

When he wakes up, head pounding and mouth dry, he might be nestled into a stack of pillows on his couch instead of Bruce’s chest but it doesn’t wipe the grin off of his face one bit.

*

It takes about three days for Tony to acknowledge that maybe Bruce is right. Maybe this whole thing has several gaping, fundamental flaws that he didn’t, or didn’t want to, consider.

The first one is that Tony can’t ever see Bruce when he’s sober. He has tried, willing his imagination to allow Bruce to materialise when his blood alcohol level is not astronomical, but he never comes. He can only see Bruce when he’s fucked out of his mind.

The second problem, a follow up to the first, is that the longer Tony stays sober, the more content Bruce is.  Their interactions get increasingly far apart; it seems to make Bruce as happy and as sad as it makes Tony.

*

He hasn’t been sufficiently intoxicated for an appearance of Bruce in over a month, until Pepper throws a birthday party for him at the office. Everyone and his fucking dog insist on buying Tony a drink, on topping up his tumbler or getting him a fresh champagne flute. Despite his protestations—and he really does turn down a lot of drinks—Bruce is lounging on his bed when he eventually staggers back to his room. “Evening.” He says casually, and looks up with an indiscernible expression.

“Fuck, Bruce, I’m so sorry.” Tony starts, toeing off his shoes and throwing his suit jacket over the back of a chair. “I tried to keep track of what I had to drink but it got a bit muddled and I must have—”

“Tony, relax.” Bruce says, sitting up properly to look at him. “I didn’t have to come and drag you out, did I? You’re not that drunk; the wrong side of tipsy, maybe, but it’s progress.”

Tony looks at him in confusion. “If I’m not that drunk, why are you here?” He asks, before realising what that sounds like. “I mean, I’m _glad_ you’re here, don’t get me wrong, but…”

Bruce shrugs. “It’s your birthday. I guess I thought maybe it was a potentially risky situation. But I’ve got to say, you did a pretty good job.” He stands up, takes a few tentative steps towards him. “And maybe I wanted to give you something.” He adds.

Tony laughs to himself. That’s the Tony Stark people know and love, right? The kind of guy who makes up an imaginary friend and then gets them to give him birthday presents. “Maybe, huh?” He teases, letting Bruce come closer. There’s only one birthday present he wants from Bruce, and any other night he’d dispel it from his mind. Bruce has made it quite clear that nothing can ever happen between them, but nothing about tonight is abiding by Bruce’s normal rules.

He stops walking, leaving barely a foot of space between them. Nobody speaks until Tony breaks the silence. “You wanted to give me something?” He prompts with a grin, daring to hope that he is right in his suspicions.

Bruce kisses him.

It’s probably the best kiss Tony has ever had in his life, which is understandable. He knows what he likes, and Bruce knows him inside out, so naturally his technique is perfect. Tony allows his eyes to close, grips hard onto his arm as he returns the kiss eagerly.

“Fuck.” Bruce breathes into his collarbone as he pulls away, dropping his head. Tony shares the sentiment entirely, and for once in his life can’t find anything to say that does the occasion justice. “You know this is a mistake, right?” He says quietly, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“If only all of my mistakes resulted in such fine making out.” He jokes, ignoring that nagging feeling in his head determined to remind him how hard the last few weeks without Bruce have been, that constant tug of war between seeing Bruce, and seeing Bruce disappointed that he’d given up and turned to the bottle once more.

“This is serious.” Bruce scolds gently.

“It’s my _birthday_.” Tony whines. “No-one should have to do serious on their birthday. And you said it yourself; I’m not even that drunk. I’m normal-person drunk, not hot-mess drunk. I’m totally capable of making my own decisions.”

There is a pause lasting all of maybe three seconds, and their lips are together once more, moving so easily and naturally that they could have been doing this for decades. They fall back onto the bed and Tony undoes a few buttons, letting his hands run over Bruce’s chest. “I have a really good imagination.” He proclaims, marvelling in the sheer spectacle that was Bruce without a shirt. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Bruce shrugs, trying to remain nonchalant as to not give Tony the satisfaction. “They say the subconscious stores a lot of stuff you don’t necessarily remember. You probably saw me—well, not me, but someone who looks like me—years ago and it’s just resurfacing now. Like this.” He gestures at his body unnecessary, but Tony shakes his head.

“Bruce, you think if I’d seen that face, I could ever have forgotten it?” Bruce fucking _blushes_ , and moans slightly into Tony’s mouth as he meets him for another kiss. “Want to blow you.” Tony says between kisses, and Bruce’s hands tighten in his hair. “That okay?”

“It’s… I… Tony, I don’t know—”

“I don’t care about what happens in the morning, Bruce. This is real now, right?” Bruce hesitates, then nods. “Right now, this is real. We’re real. And I want to blow you.”

He watches as Bruce considers it, and is surprised they even got this far. He had pretty much expected Bruce to tell him no immediately, that kissing is one thing but this is another thing entirely.

He doesn’t.

He opens his mouth but can’t manage any words, and closes it again, then nods. “Seriously?” Tony says with glee.

“Y-Yeah. Fuck, Tony… _please_.”

Tony grins at that, and sinks to his knees.

*

When he wakes up, there’s still spit crusted on his chin and something hard digging into his thigh. His heart jumps; Bruce is still here and he’s sober. He grins as his eyes flicker open, only to see the other side of the bed empty. He rolls a little, pulls out the dido trapped under his body, and groans. Sitting up, head throbbing, he wipes the crusted spit from his mouth and tries to suppress the memory of fucking the silicon toy into his mouth.

He needs help, needs to give this up before he ends up in way too deep. He grabs his phone, and hesitates. He’s not sure who to call or what to say. “Oh, hey Rhodey. I’ve fallen in love with a guy who I hallucinate when I’m drunk.”

He sounds insane. He throws the phone aside and rubs at his eyes, as if it might rub away the fucking tragedy that is his life along with the sleep dust. He’s so screwed.

*

He goes three months without a drink, and he doesn’t even miss it any more. The ache he used to feel after four damn hours of sobriety has been wholly replaced with a constant throbbing need to see Bruce again.

Pepper’s noticed. Everyone’s noticed, but Pepper’s the only one that has commented on it. “I decided cold turkey was the only way to go.” He lies, but it comes surprisingly naturally. He lied to himself for months, after all; lying to someone else was a walk in the park by comparison.

She’s proud of him. She doesn’t say as much but Tony knows that she was so scared he’d do something stupid, and he feels a little guilty that it’s not for her that he’s suddenly making an effort, but for some guy who doesn’t exist, some fictitious sarcastic asshole he dreamt up and can’t seem to let go of.

He waits until she’s away on a business trip overnight so she wouldn’t come in and get the wrong idea. Every bottle of alcohol he owns is set out on the bar in front of him, and his eyes are drawn to an unopened bottle of whiskey worth more than he cares to imagine. He takes a heavy glass tumbler, opens the bottle and pours himself two fingers.

It’s easily the best beverage he has ever consumed, but its taste is ruined by the underlying feeling of guilt as he imagines Bruce’s disappointment. He grimaces, drains the glass and pours another. He’s not had a drink in so long that he’s not sure how long it’s going to take any more, but he hopes that Bruce will appear soon. He can taste the poison on his tongue.

Four glasses over the space of an hour. That’s how long it takes. One moment, he’s alone and the next, a stool is being pulled back and he looks up to see Bruce staring blankly at the wall of booze in front of him. “Hey, Tony.” He says, sitting so close that their arms nearly touch.

He sounds tired.

“Bruce—”

“You know, it’s been so long… I’d kind of hoped this was over.”

Tony tries not to think about their last meeting, tries to stay focused. “It is.” He says hollowly. He doesn’t say another word, but empties the rest of the bottle of priceless whiskey into the sink. “This is it, Bruce.” The silence is broken only by the _glug glug glug_ of the bottles—expensive Russian vodka follows the whiskey, and then a fancy bottle of champagne.

“So why did you—”

Tony laughs. “Well, I could hardly leave without saying goodbye, could I?”

Bruce looks at him eventually, and they kiss. It’s gentle but thorough, like Bruce is trying to lick every trace of booze from his mouth, remove every last drop he can, and Tony moans into the embrace. “M’gonna miss you.” Tony murmurs against Bruce’s lips, his hand cupping his face lightly.

“Tony, I…”

“Bruce, I swear to God, let me have this moment, okay?”

Bruce laughs softly, cords his fingers through Tony’s hair in a motion that raises goose bumps on his arms. “Okay. I’m going to miss you too. But at least now I don’t have to be worried about you hurting yourself anymore.”

“You worried about me?”

“Of course I did, idiot.” He kisses him again, more firmly this time, more insistent. “Got anywhere more comfortable?” He asks with a smirk, and _oh god, oh god_. Tony stands up, his heart pounding, and leads the way to his bedroom.

_Well_ , he thinks. _If this is the last time_ …

When he wakes up in the morning, he pours out the last of the liquor, dumping the tens of bottles in the recycling bin.

The next time someone offers him a drink, he thinks only of how Bruce looked on the last night and declines without hesitation.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry. Pls come yell at me on [ tumblr ](http://scibros.tumblr.com) because I totally deserve it.


End file.
